The surface beneath me shifts, and my head lolls to one side. An arm under my neck. Someone is cradling me. I force my eyes open. Bram’s face hovers above mine. I blink, confused. My dreams sometimes start this way, but I’m never this disoriented. Never in this much pain.

I try to stretch. To open and flex my hands, but something feels off.

My hand.

Everything comes rushing back and I let out a whimper.

“Don’t worry,” Bram says. His face is tight. His mouth thin. “You’re safe now.”

We’re outside, in some kind of alley. It’s dark out—the only light comes from a barrel fire burning nearby. Bram must have carried me out of the shadow market. When I realize my head is resting in the crook of his elbow, my broken heart aches. He helped Latham. Taught him the magic he needed to steal my father’s bones.

“Put me down.” Pain flashes through Bram’s eyes, but he complies, gently setting me on the ground.

At the sound of my voice, the others hurry to my side. They’re all here, their faces illuminated by firelight—Tessa, her face tear-streaked and swollen; Talon, who looks like he hasn’t slept in at least a week; Jacey and Niklas, who are leaning against each other as if they might fall over otherwise.

I gather my courage and look down. My arm is wrapped in blood-soaked bandages. My hand is missing.

“No,” I say softly. “No, no, no.”

Tessa lets out a choked sob. “I’m sorry, Saskia. We tried … We tried so hard to stop him, but we couldn’t do it. He was wearing some kind of armor, so Bram couldn’t break his bones. Talon tried with the raven, but …” I think of Latham’s blade arcing through the air. The burst of black feathers. “He was too strong.”

All of my time spent worrying and I never once considered that Latham didn’t actually need to kill me to finish what he started. He didn’t need every bone in my body, just a few.

We must not have moved very far from the shadow market, because I can still hear the din of corruption in the background—customers bartering for a better deal on stolen bones, Breakers calling out bets on who will die in their next snapping battle, the barking of Mixers advertising drugs for sale.

I lift my head, and Bram helps me sit. The sky spins, and I squeeze my eyes closed. A wave of nausea rolls through my stomach. A distant ache pulses at the wound, and I can tell whatever pain spell Tessa administered is beginning to wear off.

“I can make you a new hand,” Niklas says. His voice is tentative. “I’ve studied how to do it in training. The bones wouldn’t be yours, of course; we’d need a donor. But it would function.”